


An Open Door

by Tawny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ... Really slow build, Alternate Universe -- 70's AU, Basically poltergeists, Canon Typical Violence, Chronic Flashbacks, Family Issues, Gen, Human AU, I'm shit at explaining just read it, In other words I actually have plot, Ratings Tags and Characters subject to change, Slow Build, among other things, but not a happy story, not angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tawny/pseuds/Tawny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has the perfect life. He has the perfect car, he has the perfect brother, he has the perfect friends. He has the perfectly-imperfect parents.  He has the perfect face-- God had been good to him in terms of handing out genes. He got all the right ones. He has the perfect body, and all the girls loved the way he dressed, and, speaking of girls, the ones he got? Gorgeous. In every aspect.<br/>But a book his little brother brings home one night, something about the parapsychological effects of stress (Dean didn't really pay attention) has Sam doing more research. It's all well and good, of course, kids read things, they learn things. But something Sam says about the paranormal has their mother on edge.<br/>"Talking about things like that," she said, her eyes cold, colder than Dean had ever seen before. It scares the boys. "Talking about it opens a door wide open, and anything can just waltz right through it. We don't have a lock on that door, Sam. We can't <i>put</i> a lock on that door."<br/>Mary threw Sam's books away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Ch. One: The House I Live In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of a warning-- this story tends to jump around a lot.

September, 1972  
Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean wasn't really paying attention to the words that came out of his mouth; he just knew what was on the radio, and he knew the lyrics, but he wasn't registering anything he was singing. No, he was too focused on the bolts under his fingers, the grease under his nails. He didn't need the music to _distract_ him, necessarily-- he was finding satisfaction in being absorbed with the engine he tinkered with, the front of the Chevy digging almost painfully into his ribs as he leaned over it, reaching as far back under the hood as he could. The weather was cold, and the car wasn't shifting right. He could fix that. He knew he could, he'd dealt with worse. Since he was about ten, Dean could rattle off the parts of an engine the way most kids listlessly handed out their address. He was perfectly in his element; music just eliminated the awful silence.

When Dean worked on cars, he felt like he was doing something productive with his life. He felt like he was doing something good, like he was making things better-- and he was! He was  _fixing_ things. He was born with strong hands, like his father's. The least he could do was use them to help, not hurt.

Now, though, it was getting dark, and he'd need to head out. It wasn't like he was getting paid any more for staying longer than his shift required. And anyway, the auto repair wasn't an actual _shop_. A family friend, Bobby Singer, had it built on as an extension to his house. Dean didn't want to overstay his welcome, even if the man was more like an uncle to him than an employer.

Dean almost left without turning off his music, though; it was his radio. Bobby didn't keep one. It was a nuisance, he had said. Loud and obnoxious and too staticky. He preferred cassettes, and so did Dean, but he respected the owner of this truck too much to plug in one of his own. Plus, cassettes were a bit pricey for Dean's budget, and he needed music to work smoother. The radio had a wider variety, and it never played the same eight songs over and over again. For the moment, Dean would take flavor over quality.

Once the radio was off, however, the garage held an eerie emptiness. It was the echo, Dean told himself; the last vowel that  _I Wanna Hold Your Hand_ had managed to squeeze out before Dean had clicked the knob off was still ringing around the room, even as Dean stood there, his eyes slowly sweeping over the tools lining the wrap-around counter.

_Stop being a baby_ , he berated himself. It was just getting dark. That's all it was, the shadows were longer and all the stories about wolves here in South Dakota were getting to him. Plus, most of the Beatles' songs creeped him out, anyway, had this...  _vibe_ . It made him uncomfortable, especially... _It's just a stupid echo._  They all sounded like they were smoking something immediately before recording, which Dean supposed there was nothing wrong with, but he was uncomfortable around drugs. He was even skittish around cigarette and cigar smokers, though he knew, logically, tobacco and nicotine couldn't do anything to alter your mind, not the way alcohol could.

He was almost out the door when the radio started up again, and Dean paused, looking over his shoulder, perplexed. Calmly, he strode across the room, turning the radio off again. He stood there, turning his head this way and that, trying to explain to himself, just  _why_ the radio had turned itself on again. Maybe he hadn't clicked it all the way to the left? He shook his head. Could've been static- but no, that wouldn't explain how the knob had... Whatever, it was getting late. He had to go.

He hadn't made it three steps before Ringo poured his voice into the room again, causing Dean to jump a little bit. This time, he was  _sure_ he had turned this off, and when he clicked it again, he was rather aggressive about it, going as far as unplugging it from the wall, and unscrewing the nut in the back of the radio that kept the cord connected.

That's when it happened, when he heard static from the other side of the room, all bouncy and echoey with too much space to reverberate in. When he saw the headlights come on before he registered what was happening, when the drumbeats filled his ears, and the chorus of wailing men started serenading him, and the car revved, the interior lights coming on and all the car doors locking. Dean nearly wet himself, scrambling backwards. He tripped over a wrench that he was  _sure_ he hadn't left there, but twisted around, throwing his arms out, his hands bracing himself against the concrete before he'd impacted. Wasting no time in getting to his feet, Dean broke for the door, and he swore, he couldn't get there fast enough, just a ball of slow-running, sweaty fear. He almost fell about three more times, and the only thing going through his head, besides  _'holyfuckingshit'_ , was how  _Sherry_ , and quite possibly every other Frankie Valli song, was ruined for him.

 

Dean called in sick the next day.

 

* * *

 

 **Chapter One:**   **The House I Live In**

 

December, 1960  
Central City, Nebraska

 

At some point during the night, she woke up at the exact same time he did. She didn't know how long they just lay there, but nothing was said for the longest time. This house was peaceful; she didn't feel like there were eyes coming through the ceiling, didn't have the overwhelming sense of fear, that something was going to go horribly wrong at any and every moment.

"Do you think the boys will be okay?" she breathed, hardly making any noise-- nothing but the sound of her lips moving, her tongue behind her teeth. There was no reply, but she knew John had heard her. He always heard her. So she turned her head, blinking into the darkness, as if she would be able to see him.

"Johnny," she whispered, reaching behind her to gently jostle him, quietly rouse him from his deep thought. "Johnny, baby, talk to me," she quietly pleaded, rolling over to face him, the wet reflection in his eyes just barely discernable. "Do you think our boys are okay? That they're going to be... Going to be fine..? Johnny? John. _John_."

Mary's voice was growing more urgent, but John was growing ever more silent. He wasn't even blinking, and it was more than a little bit unsettling. "John, come _on_ , this isn't... John?"

In truth, Mary was frightened. She was scared that she was going to start panicking, because when Mary panicked, nothing good came of it. So she moved to sit up, her hand moving from John's shoulder to lightly press against his chest; while he was warm, definitely not a cadaver, he fell limply onto his back. John was breathing, but unresponsive. Shaking, Mary reached behind her, to flick on the lamp, so that she could lean in, could see... She wasn't sure what, exactly. But she had to see, she knew she had to see. And what she saw-

Mary woke up gasping for breath, scrambling around, her hands grasping at sheets, at her nightgown, her hair, and arms found their way around her. At first, she had felt restricted, but eventually, she calmed down enough to realize what was going on, and she stopped, resigning to cry against John's chest. She had never moved. She had never turned over, never reached behind her to get her husband's attention. But John was awake; John was awake, and he was holding her tight, and he was pressing small kisses into her hair, whispering things like 'it's going to be okay', and 'it's over'.

These nightmares happened often; nightmares where she had seen someone she loved go cold and catatonic, unresponsive, nightmares where their eyes would black out, slowly, as if someone had dripped food coloring into their irises, and their faces would twist gruesomely, grotesquely, moving their body in the most unnatural, terrifying ways. As if Mary were watching her dreams on the television, one of those montages where the motions were far too exaggerated, but far too quickly to be humanly possible.

It was with John's hands in Mary's hair that she fell asleep again, and when she did, it was with one thought; it wasn't that her nightmares were the result of a traumatic experience. Her nightmares weren't paranoia.

Whatever was in her house had followed her, and it did _not want_ Mary Winchester to openly speak about it with her family.

* * *

Barely two seconds had passed, it seemed, before her eyes were open again, and she had felt no more rested than she had the night before. John was still asleep, and Mary, used to the Mom routine, silently placed her feet on the hardwood floor, gently padding to the dresser to paw through a drawer for some socks; it was far too cold to be running around without any, her toes would freeze off.

... Plus, if she had socks on, she wouldn't have to be bothered to lift her feet up as she shuffled down the halls.

She trudged slowly, her nightgown falling loosely around her shoulders, grabbing a robe that was too long for her arms on the way out. She stopped in front of the grandfather clock she had poised in front of the stairs, opening it, rewinding it, letting it give half of a toll once, twice, thrice before she closed the glass face. She then proceeded to head down the hall, popping her head into Dean's room. She didn't know why she bothered checking his room anymore; the boy was never there in the mornings. His bed was unmade, though, so she smiled softly to herself, stepping in, opening the blinds, pulling up the sheets, straightening the pillows.

A little ways further down the hall that she stopped in Sam's doorway, sighing softly and leaning against the doorframe. She just stared at her boys, worry pushing a 'v' shaped wrinkle between her eyebrows. She was so intent on focussing on the way Dean's chest rose and fall, curled around his baby brother, so _protective_ , she didn't even hear John's heavier footsteps clunking down the hall, uneven, stumbly; he was like this when he wasn't quite awake. She was so lost in matching her breathing with Sam's, reassuring herself that he was _okay,_ that she jumped and gave a little _'oh!'_ of surprise when John's arms found their way around her waist. He didn't say anything; he just dropped his head onto her shoulder, letting her raise an arm and tangle her fingers in his hair.

They stood like that for a while, John slowly rocking them, humming some Ray Charles song, his nose buried in the crook of her neck. They hadn't been this close in a while; stress lately had prohibited them from relaxing, much less holding each other. It was nice. They both missed it.

But... Something was wrong with Mary, and John knew it. She was thinking, and she was thinking hard, and it probably had something to do with her nightmares, which gave John enough cause to worry about, in and of itself. He didn't dare say anything about it, though. When she was ready, she would talk.

Mary, on the other hand, knew that the longer it took for her to speak up, the more danger she was putting her children in. But surely nothing could happen to them now, right? Not with the shelves of angels looking over her boys, in the light of day, with her husband holding on to her, keeping her safe? She swallowed, opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, and John lifted his head a bit, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"Do you..." She paused. Nothing happened. An exhale. "Do you think they'll be okay?" she whispered hoarsely. Again, nothing. A stark, silent, nothing, and for a moment, Mary seized up, worried her nightmare wasn't over yet, that she was trapped now, with John's arms around her like a vice, not letting her go, trapping her, holding her back so that her babies, _her babies_ -

"How do you mean?"

She relaxed, leaning more heavily into her husband, and he frowned. "Mary, what do you mean, do I think they'll be okay?" he whispered. "Of course they're going to be okay. Dean's a little shaken, and Sammy won't remember it at all-"

"I'm worried about Dean, though," she sighed, dropping her hand and turning, wrapping her arms around John now, and resting her head on his chest, just watching Sam and Dean sleep. "What if he's..." No more words fell out of Mary's mouth, and the unfinished sentence hung in the air. Cold. Worrisome. It made John fearful, and that made Mary uncomfortable, and she bit her lip. 

"Nothing's wrong with Dean," he said sternly, firmly. Mary swallowed, sighing, praying he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my first work for Supernatural, but I've been planning this a while. From here on out, updates should be dishing out every Friday, if not, Saturday. At least, until I run out of queued chapters. They _will_ be longer than this! I just had to get this up uvu  
>  It should also be noted that I don't really know that much about the forties-seventies, so if I royally frick the heckie up, please be a dear and do let me know.
> 
> -Alec


	2. Time Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you would have showed a picture of Sam and Amy to Dean Winchester nine years before today, the seven year old would probably suggest that they just get married already.

April, 1972  
Central City, Nebraska

Dean sat in the parking lot of the middle school, Sam-proofing his car as he waited for the bell to ring, which would result in a stampede of eleven year olds. Dean got out of school about five minutes earlier than the middle schoolers did, which gave Dean just enough time to drive down the block and to the other building, hiding any paraphernalia he may or may not have. This was another place, another school the boys temporarily attended until Dean fucked up and offended a teacher, or narrowly avoided getting involved with the police. Most recently, he'd thrown rock salt in the pool, because he'd read about chemical reactions, and-- well. Their parents had put Dean to work to help pay off the debt they owed in damages, and on top of that, Dean was required to choose between community service or... Or counselling, every Wednesday. His sentence started the second summer started.  _Great._

Dean didn't need counselling. He was a good kid, dammit! Counselling was for kids that had hate, and rage, and pain, and tension built up inside them, counselling was for kids that acted out because they lived in broken homes, counselling was nothing but a way for the system to go incognito and decide if these children needed new homes, better homes. Dean didn't need a better home- Dean couldn't  _get_  a better home! True, he hardly saw his parents; his father worked two shifts, and even Mary had to work overtime waitressing under the table, which, of course, meant that Dean had to grow up, take care of himself, keep Sammy out of trouble. Dean and Sam were both okay with that, they knew their parents loved them. This wasn't a sob story situation; the look of happiness on Mary's face when she came home to a clean house, and the contentedness in John's light snores when Sam and Dean insisted he go to bed instead of staying up at their expense, were more than worth it. It meant they were trusted; they could stay in the house alone without a sitter, they would get their homework done without prompts, they washed behind their ears and remembered to comb their teeth and brush their hair, as John humorously dubbed their pre-school routine.

But the fact remained, with little to no supervision growing up, Dean sort of.. strayed. He stole things, lots of things. Like lighters, even though he didn't smoke. The caps were shiny, and they looked cool in his window sill. He stole those little collector matchbox cars for Sam, though he swore up and down he bought them. And if he had bought them, the money itself was either stolen, or from something pawned. Come to think of it, just about everything Dean had come to value at one point or another had been pawned off, actually. The only thing that was off the table was the cord around his neck and the skin on his back.

He had just popped the glovebox shut as he heard the familiar drumming of Sam's fingers against his windows, Dean having missed the bell through his cassettes blaring through the speakers; they were loud. He installed them himself.

Dean really wouldn't worry about the kid knowing he stole, or gambled on occasion, or had several girls' names and addresses in a neat little pocket book, but  _somebody_  had to teach Sammy to have some sense of pride. What kind of brother would Dean be if he let someone else?

He leaned across the seats to unlock and open the passenger door for his brother, turning down his radio considerably. "Heya, Sammy," he greeted, grinning, cheerfully ruffling Sam's hair once the door was shut, seat belt all but forgotten. His brother looked like he was in a good mood; better than yesterday, at least.

"How was school?"

"I made a new friend," Sam replied instantly. "She's really nice, her name is Amy."

"Does Sammy have a crush?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows theatrically, pulling out of the parking lot.

"No!" But the answer was too quick; Dean's little brother was horrible at not giving himself away, but it made him feel good when Dean played along.

"Okay," he said, and if he weren't driving, his hands would be in the air, a sign of resignation. "I hear you, brother, relax. But she's pretty cool, huh?"

At this, Sam nodded, grinning widely. "She's new in town. She and her mom just moved here. Some sort of witness protection thing, only without the fake names? Her dad was real abusive," he shrugged, using that casual sort of tone that told Dean he cared about this situation way more than he was willing to let on. Dean stayed silent, though, allowing Sam to finish the story. "So they moved to Central City," he went on, looking down and picking at his thumb, "and she's taking art class, and music, I think, but she's happy here." Dean hummed to himself, breaking by a stop sign, closing his eyes for a second and grinning. Sam wasn't in either of those classes; they'd have had to really hit it off for Sam to know that.

"You wanna invite her over sometime? I could cook," he offered, sparing Sam a glance before he started driving again.

"Really?" The tone of Sam's voice told Dean that he'd been building up to that question, and he chuckled.

"Yeah, sure, I don't see why not."

"I mean, I've been to her house and stuff," he shrugged, and when Dean glanced over again, Sam was staring aimlessly out the window.

"I thought you just met her?"

"Well," he shrugged, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye, before finding the endless trees suddenly way more interesting. "I said I made a new friend. I never said when."

There was a pregnant pause while Dean absorbed this information, and as their house came into view, Dean slowed, and reached over to mock punch his brother in the shoulder.

"You two make out yet?"

_"Dean!"_

"Okay, okay," he laughed, dipping his head as he pulled into the driveway, halting the Impala. "Just asking, chill out."

He pretended not to see the pink tongue Sam flashed at him before the kid climbed out of the car.

* * *

Two weeks later, Sam was a bouncy blur of hair and bright eyes, flitting from clothing rack to clothing rack in the cheap (but good) store on the corner, the one with the soda machine out front and the mechanical firetruck, plastic dalmatian and all. Sam could be such a girl sometimes, but Dean understood. He was treating this like a date, for Sammy, even though his brother refused to acknowledge it as such.

"Dates are for couples, and you  _go_  places on dates," Sam had defended. "We're just hanging out."

Dean didn't buy that at all, however. Sam would disappear sometimes, nothing but a note on the kitchen counter explaining that he had left to catch a movie, or that he was craving fries and a shake. It was no secret (at least, to Dean) just who he was with. The puppy was in love, and it was damn adorable.

Dean's first date had been something like this, too. He was taking a girl to the county fair, which was  _totally_  cliche, but it was also _totally_  his mom's idea. He didn't exactly overdress, but he would never wear anything like that on a normal occasion. Dean Winchester did  _not_  wear khaki slacks, and  _he_   _definitely did not slick his hair back._  Needless to say, the night had ended with Dean's bottom lip getting awkwardly caught on a pair of braces, and him going to bed with a really goofy smile on his face.

The girl with the freckles had moved away weeks later, which Dean had been bummed about, but now that he was older, he realized they never would've worked, anyway. He was like, twelve, he didn't  _get_  love.

But Sam did. He _got_  it. While his outfit wasn't overtly fancy, too dressy, it was still nice. Casual, but nice.

Sam was smart, he had big thoughts, he had ideals and he had goals that Dean hadn't even considered yet, and Sam was eleven. Sam had a grasp on who he was, who he wanted to be, he understood life. He was  _intelligent_ , and that... worried Dean, a little bit. Intelligent kids were typically more depressed, because they understood what the world was really like, none of that  _Brady Bunch_  bullshit. Everything wasn't always  _Kiss and Make Up_ , it was  _Pray to God We Don't Get Bombed Today_ , or  _Pray You Don't Get Taken Away_ , or  _Pray You're Alive Tomorrow._

_Pray You **Want** to Be Alive Tomorrow._

Dean hoped Sam never caught a case of _Pray You Don't Wake Up Tomorrow._

* * *

That weekend went really well. Mary and John made a point of being home and well rested enough to have dinner with Amy and their boys. John pretended he hadn't seen Amy holding Sam's hand under the table as he stood to get a second plate of Dean's chicken, knowing that pointing it out would embarrass them; Mary and Amy hit it off right away, and to Sam's relief, no mentions of baby photos were made; Dean even had something to say, poking loving fun at Sam's hair, though coming to the conclusion that it made him look studious, if he grew it out just a tad longer (that is, if he didn't end up growing into a hippie look) and got glasses.

And then they migrated to the living room, Sam taking his place on the floor, the back of his head resting on Amy's knee as she sat on the couch, her hand aimlessly toying with his hair, and Dean assumed Big Brother Position right next to him. He was glad Sam didn't seem to be heading towards that rebelliously independent stage any time soon, even seemed to depend on Dean for security a bit. He knew that was selfish, but it made him feel nice. Important. Sam felt better with Dean there, so by God, he was going to be there.

John and Mary occupied the two seater across from them, their eyes diligently trained on the television, in case their watchful gazes made Sam uncomfortable. In Dean's opinion, they were taking this a lot cooler than they could've, and he was filled with secondhand gratefulness on behalf of his brother. Mary didn't fuss, didn't baby Amy, John didn't grill her to find out every bit of information that he could later tease Sam about. The night couldn't have gone better, and later, when John and Mary headed upstairs because it was 'getting late' (at seven o'clock), leaving Dean, Sam and Amy alone in the living room, Dean excused himself to go clean the kitchen.

And when he had finished, he found himself leaning in the archway that connected the dining room to the living room, grinning like an idiot, just like he had with that freckled girl from sixth grade, for an entirely different reason.

Amy had ended up on the floor by Sam somehow, though now they were laying down, and her face was tucked into his chest, her hair twisted and pulled over her shoulder so that Sam could trail a finger in light figure eights over the back of her neck.

Some people just _knew_  how to touch other people, instinctively. Dean himself had personally shacked up with some pretty awkward girls; their hands were always heavy, staged. Deliberate. They weren't delicate at all- not that Dean was complaining, they were gorgeous, but it was a little uncomfortable. And then there had been his mom, who pulled him close and ran her hands through his hair when he was upset, who let her fingers run along his back, soothing him and making him feel safe and small. He figured a touch like that came with being a parent, because John had that touch, too. He would rub Dean's shoulders and the back of his neck when he was letting something bother him, or when he got hurt, like the time he fell off his bike, the very first time he tried to ride without the trainers. 

Sam was like a parent. He was treating this girl as if she were breakable, and it was visible. It was in everything he did around her, from the way his other arm, the arm her head wasn't using as a pillow, was draped over her waist, holding her close, but not too close. It was then, standing there, watching his brother pour every ounce of adoration that body could hold into this one gentle little touch, that Dean realized that this touch wasn't just a touch at all, but it was a  _touch,_ and that touch was acquired when you loved someone.

He quietly made his way upstairs, only leaving his room when it was eleven, and time to drive Amy home.

Sam was in a blissful state of happiness for the entire day after that, earning knowing looks from the rest of his family. He didn't mind.

* * *

Amy had been coming over every day after school since that Saturday, and she fit so perfectly that after a week or so, Mary had started referring to her as her very own daughter. Mary also began spending long hours on the phone with Kitsune, Amy's mother, throwing her head back in laughter that Dean hasn't seen since his parents' anniversary.

Sam seemed to be significantly happier than he'd been pre-Amy; he'd been letting the world get to him, that little receptive head of his taking all the knowledge crammed inside his brain and making connections, looking at fatherless children and sighing, watching middle aged widows and withdrawing into that dark place Dean dreaded so much. He'd been reading and reading and  _reading_ and never lifting his head from any books, standing and leaving the room if John or Dean or Mary had tried to lift the mood by turning on the radio. But since that day in the car, since Sam told Dean about Amy, he'd been almost giddy. He'd been the way all eleven year olds should be, he'd been happy. He'd been bouncy and glad for things and easily excitable and he was more enthusiastic about trying new things, and it'd only been about ten days.

It was Saturday again, and John was home, but Mary was working a sixteen hour shift, so it was just the four of them for the moment.

"Bullshit," Sam declared, finding great joy in having an actual excuse to say that word in front of his father, nodding his head at the hand of cards Dean was holding.

"That's not fair, Amy can see my cards!" Dean protested, though in all honesty, he didn't care.

"I'm not playing, though," the girl pointed out, swinging her feet innocently from her perch on the arm of the couch.

"Amy's not playing, Dean," John murmured distractedly, though he was grinning to himself, his eyes flitting between Sam and Amy behind his glasses.

Pretending to act defeated, Dean sighed, placing his hand on the coffee table, a faux pout on his face while Sam laughed.

"You still could've beat me," he guffawed, revealing that he, himself, had junk. Dean had a pair.

Sam and Amy still insisted on being secretive about their relationship, even though basically everyone who was in the room with the two of them  _knew_. It was pretty hard to miss, honestly. They were perfectly synchronised; Amy would lean one way laughing, Sam would follow suit without even thinking about it. They'd sweep their hair out of their faces at the same time. And they hugged. A lot. And their hands lingered, and they stared at each other, having wordless conversations. Amy would get tired and lean on Sam, who would pretend to get uncomfortable, but he'd forget they had an audience and his arm would find its way around her shoulders.

The Winchesters were patient, though. They knew, in time, things would reveal themselves, and reveal themselves they did.

Later that night, after Mary had gotten home and Kitsune had called, telling Amy that she needed to be home, it was getting late, Amy and Sam had filed into the Impala with Dean, and things went just as they had the day before, and the day before.

But the children were exhausted; it had been a long day, and Amy was fighting for consciousness as she leaned against Sam.

Dean didn't miss the murmured 'I love you's exchanged before the girl stepped out of the car, his eyes didn't miss the way her head tilted up, pressed a small kiss to the corner of Sam's jaw.

Sam pretended he didn't notice the way his brother smiled at him through the rear view mirror the way back home. He also didn't seem as tired anymore, just really embarrassed.

* * *

June, 1972

If you would have showed a picture of Sam and Amy to Dean Winchester nine years before today, the seven year old would probably suggest that they just get married already. Of course, if Dean was seven, he probably wouldn't have the capacity to grasp the fact that the man (who was really just a boy, but to a seven year old, if someone is taller than you, they're a man) in the picture was his baby brother.

This entire scenario is implausible, of course, because that, my children, is time travel, which hasn't been invented since hundreds of years ago.

Dean wished there was time travel, though. Right at this very moment, with Amy all gorgeously dolled up and Sam in a tux, Mary taking pictures in front of the garage door, Dean wished Spock could beam him up and they could find some wormhole, and he could scoop his younger self up and gush over their baby brother together. He got that even the Enterprise hadn't quite fine tuned time travel yet, but where there was a will...

Dean didn't have someone to take to prom, which was okay; this wasn't a prom, either. This was something the middle school threw to make the younger kids feel less excluded, something Dean knew for a fact boosted a lot of eleventeen year olds' confidence levels.

Eleven. Dean's little brother had been eleven until last month. He was twelve- just one more year until he could call himself a junior high school student. John and Mary were complaining about feeling old, but Dean thought they were a bunch of hypocrites; they were his parents, sure, but they weren't his brother. Soon, Dean would be graduating, and Sam would be going through high school and zits and breakups and drama and Late Assignment Blues.

Not now, though. Now, everything was happy, and bright, and the sun was warm and Amy was being a model (okay, goofing off with Sam) on the hood of the Impala, which was streaming some Chuck Berry tape or other. Now, Mary was passing the camera off to Dean because she's going to flag down the ice cream truck, and Dean's immediately taking the privilege of turning it around, pulling a goofy face and snapping a photo. He also catches a candid kiss, one he's pretty sure Sam thinks they were being sneaky about. That's okay; staged kisses looked exactly that, staged. This one is real, and that makes it look better.

Damn, Dean should be a photographer when he's older.

Sam already knows what he's going to be, he's going to be a lawyer. He's going to send bad people, bad people like Amy's dad, to jail. He's going to help all the people he meets who have been wronged, he's going to make people better, and he's going to make money while doing it. Amy's going to be a vet of some kind, Dean keeps forgetting the specific title. She wants to work with foxes, though, he remembers that much. She's going to get a job at one of those cool enclosures where the wolves and other animals like them are more or less domestic, like an open field sanctuary zoo thing. And she and Sam are going to get married, and they are going to have two perfect girls.

Right now, Dean is in a white tuxedo, with a black undershirt, modestly complimenting Sam's 'normal' tux. He's going for the negative wingman look, and John says he looks like he belongs in a Rolling Stones music video. Now, he's kneeling in front of his brother, looking up at him and reaching to fix the lapels, trying to blow off the fact that his dad's rummaging through his music collection in the passenger seat of his car, even though all of those tapes are either hand-me-downs or recommendations. Right now, Dean's scooping Amy up in his arms, tossing her over his shoulder and casually walking away, listening to her peals of laughter as Sam trails along behind them down the street, politely asking for his girlfriend back.

Now, they're in the car, listening to a _Blue Öyster Cult-Scorpions_ mixtape, Dean quietly humming along while Amy and Sam sat in the back, blowing bubbles (much to Dean's chagrin;  _leather)_ and singing along.

Now, Dean's leaning against the side of his car, his hands neatly folded in front of him, ankles crossed as he watched his brother walk off with the girl that makes him smile more than Dean's seen since Sam was learning how to walk. If you showed a seven year old Dean a picture of these two, he would ask if they were married yet.

Now, Dean's dreaming that time travel exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, guess who thought he had the queue function figured out but was poorly mistaken.  
> Ooooooops.


End file.
